


Breathe

by Martienne



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Martienne/pseuds/Martienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of war is hard, but having someone to help makes all the difference sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

He knew this didn’t mean as much to Maine as it did to him, but even so, Wash couldn’t help but lose himself in jagged and blurred memories of last night’s conversations. That’s all it was, for now, as he awakened, bleary and cold, in that drawn position one lies in when trying to fit on a couch to sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his forehead in the crease where the couch back met the arm and tried, no, tried not to think.

Maine wasn’t typically a very talkative man. But words, when they were needed, were expressed without reluctance, though with brevity. 

“Tea?” Maine said, and Wash knew that he knew Wash was awake, but Wash didn’t want to be up yet. He shook his head and curled an arm around his head. Maine didn’t speak further, not this time. Now the words were unnecessary. The only thing needed was for Wash to process them.

“ _Shame is for pussies_.” Wash had cast a sidelong look at that remark. No, he wasn’t ashamed of his difficulties since coming home. He was just…he felt like he should be stronger than this. He knew the war had changed him, hardened him, made him more bitter. Shouldn’t that be enough of a coping mechanism?

“ _Put your feet up_.” That’s what Maine had said to him when it started. When his heart had started to pound and his face had flushed and he wanted nothing more than to run away from his own mind. And when he just looked at Maine blankly Maine had grabbed Wash’s feet himself and turned his body and set them on the arm of the couch. 

And he had lain there and felt stupid for panicking, for letting the past get to him this way, and Maine had done nothing but come and sit next to him and cradle his head. “ _Don’t think you’re unique,_ ” he’d said. “ _We’ve all been there. Each one of us._ ”

But he was unique. Something was different about the way the war had impacted him, something was different in the way he was responding to that part of his past.

“I’m here, guy.”

Wash turned, rolling on the cushion. Maine, that huge wrecking ball of a man, was crouched before him, and Wash realized he was shaking again. Maine set his hand on Wash’s shoulder. 

Wash reached for him. “I need…?” What did he need? He sat up, and Maine shifted just slightly to give him room. “I need something,” he said, and he almost whimpered as he spoke.

“Right here,” Maine said, and he set his hand gently on Wash’s arm, giving a slight tug. Wash sort of nodded blankly, eyes glassy, and he wavered in place, that grogginess and the rising distress in combination leaving him dizzy. “Mh,” Maine grunted. “Right here,” he repeated, and tugged Wash down, leaning Wash’s head against his shoulder. 

If this was a movie Wash would break into tears, he thought. He’d sob pitifully and let it all out and be cured of this forever. But PTSD isn’t that forgiving. Instead he trembled slightly, took a couple deep breaths, and leaned in further.

“That’s it,” Maine said. “Keep me from worrying.”

“You don’t worry about me,” Wash muttered, almost scoffing. 

The sound Maine made was almost indignant. “Suppose next you’ll say I helped you for no reason last night.”

Wash stopped and breathed. “I think you talked more last night than I’ve heard from you the whole time I’ve known you up until now,” he admitted.

“Right,” Maine said. “Don’t take it for granted." 

And Wash breathed. 


End file.
